Among the runes of the Elder Futhark, none are so enigmatic, so misunderstood, and so essential to the worldview of the ancient Germanic peoples as ᛇ Eiwaz. Unlike the more straightforward associations of runes like Fehu (wealth) or Tiwaz (justice), Eiwaz resists easy definition. Its sound value—an ancient ei or ī—has faded from most modern usage, but its symbolic power remains rooted in the harsh and beautiful reality of life in the north: transformation through trial, the endurance of the soul, and the sacred mystery of death and rebirth.
Let’s step back and explore what Eiwaz meant to those who first carved it into wood and stone—not as abstract mystics, but as real men and women who lived in forests, on fjords, and in the shadows of the world-tree Yggdrasill itself.
The Rune of the Yew Tree
The name Eiwaz comes from the Proto-Germanic word īwaz, referring to the yew tree. This tree is long associated with death and endurance, not only because of its poisonous needles and berries, but also because of its incredible longevity. Some yew trees in Europe have lived for thousands of years, outlasting empires and civilizations. Their wood, hard and flexible, was favored for making longbows—a weapon that both preserves and takes life.
But to the ancient Germanic peoples, the yew tree was more than a resource. It was sacred. Growing in burial grounds and marking the resting places of the dead, the yew connected this world with the next. Its roots reached into the underworld, while its trunk stood in the realm of the living. In this way, Eiwaz became the bridge between life and death—not as a final end, but as a cyclical transformation.
Death is Not the End
In Norse mythology, death is not viewed as annihilation. It is a passage—often a violent, painful, or mysterious one—but not a final one. The stories of the gods are filled with death and rebirth: Odin sacrificing himself on the world tree to gain the runes; Baldr dying and being promised rebirth after Ragnarök; even the world itself ending in fire, only to be reborn green and fertile.
Eiwaz is the rune that represents this very idea. It is not the shock of death, nor the peace of rest—it is the narrow, cold path between. It is the moment of descent into darkness, and the promise that something else, something changed, will rise again.
This is not a comforting image in the modern sense. Eiwaz does not offer easy solace or romantic ideas of transformation. It speaks to real suffering, the kind that marks and changes you. Transformation, to the people who lived in the old North, was not optional, and it was rarely gentle. It was earned.
The Endurance of the Soul
If we take the myth of Odin’s self-sacrifice as a lens for understanding Eiwaz, we see the full scope of its meaning. Odin hung on the world-tree Yggdrasill, pierced by a spear, for nine nights. He gave himself to himself. No one helped him. No one pitied him. From this suffering came knowledge—the runes themselves—and with it, the power to shape fate.
This myth illustrates that suffering is not meaningless. It is through pain, loss, and endurance that wisdom and transformation come. Eiwaz is the rune that tells us that something in us must die in order for something greater to live. It honors the part of the soul that does not give in when the path is hard. It is the rune of deep roots—of a spiritual spine that does not bend with every storm.
In magical or divinatory contexts, Eiwaz often signals a period of hardship that leads to growth. But again, this isn’t the kind of “growth” marketed by self-help books or feel-good affirmations. This is old wisdom, rooted in frost and fire. It reminds us that true endurance isn’t just surviving, it’s being transformed by the things that try to break you.
The Rune of Yggdrasill
It is worth noting that many rune scholars connect Eiwaz with Yggdrasill, the world-tree itself. This is not a stretch. The yew and the world-tree are both bridges between worlds. Yggdrasill is the axis mundi—the pillar upon which all the nine worlds hang. Like the yew, it is evergreen, deeply rooted, and impossibly ancient.
When you meditate on Eiwaz, you’re not simply imagining change—you’re connecting with the spine of the cosmos. This rune is the channel through which souls travel, both upward toward higher understanding and downward into the mysteries of Hel and the ancestors.
This connection between the yew and the world-tree also points to a deeper truth in the Norse cosmology: life and death are not opposites, they are part of one great pattern. Just as day turns to night and back again, the soul may pass through many forms, many tests, many lifetimes. Eiwaz is the thread that ties these passages together.
Practical Uses and Interpretations
If Eiwaz shows up in your rune readings or if you feel drawn to it, ask yourself these questions:
- What part of me is ready to die, so that something else may live?
- What suffering have I endured that has forged strength in me?
- What transformation am I resisting, and why?
- How do I hold to my center when all around me changes?
Eiwaz encourages you not to seek the easy way, but to go deep—into yourself, into your wounds, into the unknown. There you will find your own inner yew tree, and from it, the wisdom to navigate both death and life.
For those who carve or wear the runes as talismans, Eiwaz is a powerful protection—not against harm, but against collapse. It helps you weather storms. It calls on the strength of ancestors and the inevitability of change. It does not make life easier. It makes you stronger.
Conclusion: The Sacred Path of Becoming
To the ancient Norse, every rune was more than a letter. It was a mystery, a key, a symbol tied to the very structure of reality. Eiwaz is not a rune of comfort, but one of deep hope—the kind of hope that lives through winters and wars and wakes up with scars. It tells us that death is not an ending, but a becoming. That endurance is holy. That the soul, like the yew tree, bends, but does not break.
So next time you find yourself in a dark passage, remember Eiwaz ᛇ. Walk the path. Become the change. And know that even in the silence of the grave, something ancient stirs—something rooted, waiting, eternal.